This is the story of a boy star in the first days of vaudeville in Los Angeles, when the silent studios were humming with promise. A child singer of exceptional talent, Howard Enstedt was one of the city's youngest prodigies. His was a voice like no other: innocent, yet penetratingly strong, startlingly mature. It was a voice that made people listen. For a while, at least, the boy's future looked as bright as the lights of Broadway. He would conquer both the stage and the screen. But it was Hollywood, and his was another story, destined to end all too soon.
By Allan R. Ellenberger
Howard Enstedt was born on May 7, 1906, in Illinois, to Swan J. and Hilda Enstedt, Swedish immigrants who later settled in Los Angeles with their children, including Howard’s older brother Arthur, who would one day work behind the camera as an assistant director.
By the time he was nine, Howard’s talent was already the talk of the town. Los Angeles newspapers billed him as “the boy McCormack” and “the boy Caruso”—a nod to the great tenors of the day. His performances at Clune’s Broadway Theatre, one of Los Angeles’ earliest grand picture palaces, drew crowds who came as much to see the child wonder as to watch the feature film that followed. In a city obsessed with the new art of motion pictures, young Howard’s voice was a marvel of the old world—a human instrument in an era before microphones.
He sang in vaudeville circuits and for civic organizations, a smooth professional before his teens. The few who heard him never forgot that clear, trained voice resonating through marble lobbies and orchestra halls of early Los Angeles.
From Stage to Screen
Like many child performers in 1920s California, Howard’s stage work soon opened the door to Hollywood. His name began to appear in cast lists for silent serials and westerns; genre pictures that demanded youthful energy and expressive faces.
He appeared in the adventure serial Perils of the Wild (1925) and in The Radio Detective (1926), and some sources credit him with unbilled roles in earlier Universal westerns such as Bare Fists (1919) and Ace of the Saddle (1919). Though often relegated to supporting parts, Howard’s background as a trained singer gave his performances a grace uncommon among the rough-and-tumble serial actors of the day.
Behind the camera, his brother Arthur Enstedt was also carving out a modest career in the film industry, lending a family connection to Hollywood’s rising tide. For a time, it seemed the Enstedt’s were destined to become one of the city’s many families woven into the fabric of the early movie colony.
But that was not to be.
On December 13, 1928, at a moment in time when Hollywood was moving from silent films to “talkies,” Howard Enstedt died suddenly at Angelus Hospital in Los Angeles. He was just twenty-two years old. The official cause of death is listed as general peritonitis following surgery for acute appendicitis. Howard’s death was a loss of a promising young talent at the very peak of his ability, with only the best of years ahead of him.
Howard is interred at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery behind the Griffith obelisk, next to his parents and later next to his brother Arthur. It is a quiet spot, and his headstone is modest, listing his name, the years of his life and “Sunny Howard,” the radio moniker of the little boy who could make a theater full of people sing.
Echo of a Voice Long Silent
The sound of Howard Enstedt’s voice became the thread by which a century-old life hangs in the balance. His life was measured in a span of just ten years, yet during this time his success as an entertainer encapsulates a pivotal moment in Los Angeles history when entertainment in the city straddled both the past and future—both vaudeville and film, song and silent motion.
He was part of a generation of young performers caught in this turning point: too young to have an established presence on stage, but too early to overcome the industry’s abrupt transition to sound. Now, his legacy survives in pieces—faded clippings in a newspaper archive, scattered film credits, and a solitary headstone in Hollywood Forever that reads his name.
For the few who know where to look, Howard’s story rings like a half-remembered tune: the voice of a child prodigy once heard rising above the orchestra pit, stilled far too soon.
In a city built on dreams, his was one small, shining moment—dashed all too early, but never truly forgotten.
GRIFFITH LAWN (SECT. 7, LOT 216, GRAVE 9
